<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>all that i have are these to remember you by hullomoon</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27185143">all that i have are these to remember you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hullomoon/pseuds/hullomoon'>hullomoon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1910s, 1920s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Dirty Talk, Drinking to Cope, Epistolary, Letters, M/M, Magic, Time Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 04:28:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,219</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27185143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hullomoon/pseuds/hullomoon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When David gets stuck in 1919 he writes letters to Patrick. In 2019, Patrick responds.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer &amp; Twyla Sands, Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek Trick Or Treat</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all that i have are these to remember you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <strong>Prompt:</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shortly after moving into their new house, David and Patrick receive a strange letter in the mail. It is addressed to Patrick Rose and the date stamp on the envelope is 1919. They read the letter and are instantly curious.  It’s a love letter signed simply “Always Yours, David.” A few weeks later they get another one. The letters keep coming for almost a year when suddenly they stop.  Maybe they find out the house was owned by someone named Patrick Rose. Maybe they discover that this is not their first life together. How you approach the mystery and whatever discoveries they make is up to you.</p>
<p>When I saw this prompt I jumped right on it. I did make a few minor changes, the major one being David getting stuck in 1919 and as a way to cope he writes letters to Patrick.</p>
<p>Thousands of thanks go to my beta, Petrodobreva, who told me to lean into the angst, and just generally makes my work the best it can be. </p>
<p>title of the song is from photographs &amp; memories by jim croce</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>David had been gone for three days. Patrick hadn’t slept for three days. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was Patrick’s day to work at the store alone. He usually spent the time updating the books and other financial issues. Coming home after a long day to see David happy and relaxed is one of his favorite things. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except when he got back David wasn’t there. He wasn’t inside the cottage or out in the garden. When Patrick tried to call he found David’s phone on the patio table. He took a few deep breaths. Something urgent could have happened and David forgot to take his phone. It wouldn’t be the first time. He sent a quick text to Stevie to see if she knew where he was. He slowly walked through the rooms to see if he missed anything. A plate with crumbs and a glass with the dregs of orange juice was in the kitchen sink. A towel hung over the towel rack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David, are you in the house?” Patrick called out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stepped outside, letting the waning summer evening heat hit him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David!” he shouted. His only response was the rustle of leaves and the caw of a bird.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inspecting the garden further he found a watering can next to the tomatoes. He picked it up and brought it to the shed. His phone pinged and setting the can down he unlocked his phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stevie hadn’t seen David today, nor had he texted. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stay calm.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It was fine. He’d just head back into town and see if anyone had seen David today.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick felt dread pool his stomach as he parked his car. There was nothing inherently wrong with not knowing where David was. They were their own people and could do things without the other. The problem was it didn’t feel right. It was like when he had that strange feeling right before he learned that his grandpa had died. Oh, god. Now, he was thinking about how David could be—nope, he pushed that thought to the side. The chances of that were slim. David was probably at the cafe chatting with Twyla and when Patrick got there he would sit in the seat across from David and listen as David teased him for being the dramatic one. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except that David wasn’t there and anyone he asked didn’t know where he was either. He called the Roses and his parents and they knew nothing. He drove back to the cottage hoping that David might be there. His hopes were tarnished when he was greeted by silence and a darkened entryway. He dressed for bed, but as he sank his face into David’s pillow, inhaling the clean scent that was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he knew sleep wouldn’t find him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two hours later he got up out of bed. If he wasn’t going to get any sleep he would try and be productive. He slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and grabbed his hoodie before getting in his car once more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he sat waiting for an officer he tried to focus on something, anything that wasn’t David. His hands gripped the scratchy hard plastic chair, the cool metal frame wrapped around his fingers. He was reminded of a field trip to the police station he took when he was in Grade 1. He had been excited, so much so he got distracted and separated from the group. He felt that same loss and uncertainty right now, except back then his teacher found him in three minutes. Here he was still alone and it was his turn now to find the lost person. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Patrick Brewer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick lifted his head to see an officer approach him, a clipboard held in one hand. “Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m Officer Cornwall and I was told that you wanted to file a missing persons report?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, it’s my husband, David, I haven’t seen him since this morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know if he had any plans or left a note?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick shook his head and stared at the clipboard as he answered. “It was his day off work, but I had the car so if anywhere someone would have had to take him. And he left his phone so I can’t try and contact him.” He rubbed his hands on his knees. “I’m worried about him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cornwall gave a supportive smile. “Of course, anyone who is missing a spouse is going to be worried about them. We’ll see what we can do. Do you have a photo of him or a description?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and tried not to cry when he saw David’s beaming face on his lockscreen. “I have a few photos that could probably work. Do you want me to email them or?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick felt an ache in his eyes, a clear sign of his lack of sleep. He slowly blinked and tried to concentrate. “Email would work. And if you give us your phone number we’ll contact you as soon as we know anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Patrick replied shakily. He felt his composure slipping and wanted nothing more than to leave and just hide in the cottage, fall asleep, and have everything be fixed in the morning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he sent Cornwall the photos and gave him his phone number and the one for the store. He drove home with the naive hope that David would be there when he returned. He barely suppressed a sob when he saw their empty bed. When he crawled under the covers the dam burst. Hot tears chased one another down his face and soaked into the pillow.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick didn’t get any sleep. Instead, he tossed and turned and when the clock turned to five he got out of bed. He checked his phone to see that he had no messages.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He got dressed and drove to the Apothecary. He didn’t have plans on opening the store, even though he knew he should. Instead, he hoped that its proximity to everyone in town would help him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He headed into the back. Despite the hour he sent texts to Stevie and Alexis to inform them he had notified the police on David’s disappearance and that he still wasn’t found. He felt like a harbinger of bad news. His stomach got queasy at the thought of waking up and seeing a text like that, but he had also promised to keep them updated. He pulled up his email and tried to convince himself he would get some work done. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone pinged. Patrick blinked and looked down at it. It was already 6:30 (he must have spaced out) and a text from Stevie which said </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hospitals?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick rubbed his thumb on his temple. He hadn’t thought about hospitals and kicked himself for not thinking about it. After a quick search, he called the few in the area, his heart sinking after each one said David wasn’t there. He gave a description of David and told them if he came in to let him know. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point, Danica came in for her shift and Patrick winced, feeling bad that he hadn’t told her not to come in. She waved his apology off and filled the online orders before promising to look for David. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The day ended without anyone knowing anything new and Patrick spent another sleepless night trying to keep the worst-case scenarios at bay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next day, David was still nowhere to be found. At this point, everyone in town knew what had happened and had offered to help Patrick find David. He appreciated their efforts, but every time they came back to report no sightings of him, the look of pity in their eyes was too much to bear. He didn’t know how he would react however if they came back with bad news. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew that he was running on pure adrenaline, but didn’t realize how bad it was until Ronnie told him to go home and sleep. Granted, she prefaced it by saying he looked like shit, but he knew that Ronnie cared about David so if they found him while he was sleeping she’d probably tell him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick tried to sleep, he really did, but he couldn’t settle the thoughts and fears that ravaged his mind. He got up and went downstairs. He filled up his water bottle and snagged his keys. As he drove he tried to think about all the places that David could be. They would probably have to start looking at some of the other towns soon.  He parked his car at the end of the trail. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew he needed to find David, but he hoped taking a quick hike would calm his mind and then he could finally get some sleep. His thoughts were ragged, unsure, and he hadn’t felt this uncertain since he grappled with his feelings for David and started these hikes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The air was the crisp cool of early morning not yet hardened by the afternoon heat. Birds chirped and he heard an owl hoot in the distance. If he closed his eyes he could pretend it was just another morning hike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick enjoyed the slight pull in his muscles as he hiked up the trail further. Eventually, his feet led him to the spot where he proposed. This spot held so many memories for him and he felt tears well in his eyes. He blinked rapidly to keep them at bay. He wasn’t going to cry again. He had spent too much time in the last few days doing that. As he sat there he had the wildest thought. Maybe if he turned around he’d see David there. The lack of sleep was going to his head, if David really showed up he didn’t know how he would react. Probably like an inconsolable wreck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He got up and headed back down the trail. He didn’t meet anybody and his heart sank when he got to the car and didn’t see David or any new messages on his phone. He laid his head on the steering wheel. He wanted to scream, to rage, and to shout at the unfair situation he was in and its nebulous state. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he couldn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t fall apart, he had to be strong. For David, their family, and friends. This wasn’t about him or how he felt. It was about finding David and bringing him home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he got back to the cottage he kicked off his hiking shoes and fell face first in the bed. Patrick turned around and stared at the ceiling. Sleep hadn’t come the last two days and he didn’t know how it would come now, especially since the sun was still out. He threw a pillow over his head and concentrated on breathing in and out. The exhaustion and anxiety from the last few days came over him and soon his eyes grew heavy with sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick blearily opened his eyes. David’s side of the bed was slightly rumpled. He snaked an arm across and patted the area. It was cold. Did David get up early? He didn’t do that often and when he did he usually just made coffee and then crawled back into bed. He didn’t smell any coffee or hear any sounds that David was downstairs.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Oh, that’s right.</span> <span>David was gone. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>He pushed himself up onto his elbows. The room was dark and a glance at the clock told him it was eight. He had spent the entire day asleep. His stomach rumbled, alerting him to the fact that except for some granola bars, he hadn’t eaten anything in three days. He lifted his hand up so it was horizontal to his eyes and watched as his hand trembled. Before he decided anything else he should at least make an attempt to eat something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He padded to the kitchen and opened the fridge to see a casserole on the middle shelf. In masking tape someone had written ‘made May 10th.’ Patrick winced, whoever had left this in the fridge most likely dropped it off the day before. A sticky note was on top of the lid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve looked exhausted the past few days so I thought I would just drop this off! One time my step cousin's goat was lost for three days and it turned out she had given birth in a remote area of the pasture. I’m sure we’ll find David soon!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>-Twyla</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulled it from the fridge, setting it on the counter while he grabbed a plate from the cupboard. He scooped some of it out of the pan, put it on the plate, and set it in the microwave. While the microwave hummed and the timer counted down, he headed outside to check the mail. It felt strange to do such a mundane task, as if his world hadn’t been tilted on its axis. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d checked it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick stepped outside, blinking as the setting sun hit his face. He winced slightly at the sun-warmed asphalt hitting his socked feet as he walked to the mailbox. He pulled the mailbox down. Inside was a single envelope. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The envelope in his hands looked odd. It was an off-white color, almost yellowed. He turned it over, and what he saw made him freeze. There, plain as day, was the name, Patrick Rose,  written in what could only be David’s handwriting. He ran back inside and slammed the door behind him. He rushed to his desk, and with unsteady hands took the letter opener and sliced it open. He pulled the letter out and stared at the page with its slightly faded words. More of David’s handwriting. On thick-weight paper, slightly yellowed with thick, worn creases as if folded for decades. A chill ran through his body, goosebumps erupting on his arms as he began to read. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>May 9, 1919</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Patrick,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If you’re reading this then I haven’t found a way to get back to you. I’m still not sure what happened. I was in the garden when I saw a deer in the yard. The last thing I remember is trying to shoo it away and then suddenly I was surrounded by chickens in a chicken pen. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick, I don’t think I can explain to you how horrible it was. I managed to escape the pen, only to learn that I wasn’t at the cottage. It turns out I was on the land that would eventually become our cottage. Currently, a farmhouse sits here. Luckily, the owners weren’t too surprised by my presence, which in hindsight is concerning. That’s when I learned that it is 1919. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t say I reacted to that news calmly. I ran away.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll explain more later, but the important thing is I’m fine. I’m staying with some of Twyla’s—I guess—ancestors. I still can’t think about that too hard. Hopefully, this will be the only letter you receive and I’ll get back to you soon.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Always Yours,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick dropped the letter on the floor. What did David mean? He picked up the letter again, scouring to see if there was a hidden message. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Time travel</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His mind supplied. He huffed. Time travel wasn’t real, it lived in the land of make believe and adventure. Sure he knew there were theories, but that’s all they were. Maybe this was some elaborate joke, or—or he was held hostage and they made David write the letter. He dropped it again. Shit, what if it had fingerprints or something the police needed. Was that something they did?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He headed into the kitchen, maybe if he had some tea he could calm down and think about the situation. He filled the electric kettle and flipped it on. He opened the cupboard and pulled his mug down. He stopped, hand outstretched. His distracted mine had automatically reached for it. Patrick pulled his hand back as if it was burned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He placed his hands on the counter, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He focused on the smooth feeling of the counter on the pads of his fingers and the sound of the water bubbling away. He was fine, he knew where David was, and as soon as he got his tea he could call the police and tell them about the letter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of the electric kettle turning off had him open his eyes. He put a teabag in the mug and grabbed the kettle, slowly pouring the water into the mug. The smell of peppermint filled his nose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick walked back into his office, grabbed his phone, and dialed the police station. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Officer Cornwall.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, this is Patrick. Patrick Brewer and I think I might have something to help with David’s case.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait a moment.” Patrick heard the shuffle of paper and a few voices in the background. “Okay, tell me what it is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick paused. He hadn’t really thought about how to explain it, he could barely process it himself. “Uh, this is gonna sound a little strange but hear me out. I went to my mailbox and found a letter. It was from David and said he had time travelled to 1919.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a long pause and for a moment he wondered if the call had dropped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know you’ve been stressed and distraught Patrick, so I need you to say it again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was a letter from 1919 saying that David was there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cornwall sighed. “Send us the photo of it, but Patrick I’ll be honest I don’t know if it’s going to help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick firmly gripped his mug. “Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry Patrick. I know that’s not what you wanted to hear. We’ll let you know if we find anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he replied again, much quieter than last time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enjoy the rest of your evening.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen. He took a sip of his tea, wincing at the heat. He grabbed the letter again, took a quick photo, and emailed it to Cornwall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He moved to sit in his chair, knees up with arms wrapped around them, nose squished up against his knees, and he took a few deep breaths that Twyla had once taught him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabbed a notebook and tore out a page, picking up a pen he began to write. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>May 11, 2019</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know what to do. I’ve looked everywhere for you and can’t find you. I don’t know if your letter is real or fake. I feel helpless. I can’t go to you. I can’t see you. I’m shouting into an empty void and hoping to get a response. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think there will be a response.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to help you but don’t know how. What am I supposed to do if you don’t return? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Please return.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick pushed the chair away from the desk and got up. Instantly, he felt his head spin and his eyesight narrow and turn black. He blinked, adjusting until his eyesight slowly returned. Oh, he forgot that he left the casserole in the microwave. On shaky legs he made his way to the microwave and pulled out the now cooled again food. He grabbed a spoon and mechanically ate. When finished, he set the plate in the sink and headed back to the bedroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On his way, he passed his office and paused. He changed direction and went in there instead and picked up the letter he had written earlier. The letters were cramped, almost illegible, and clearly written in a haze. He got out a new piece of paper, picked up his pen, and tried again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>May 11, 2019</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear David,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Receiving a letter from you was something I didn’t expect. If we’re being honest I’d rather be holding you than your letter but I’ll take anything I can get. Everyone in town has been helping me look for you and I let your family know what’s happened so far. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’d like to say that I’ve held myself together, but if I have it’s only been by a shoestring. I had to have Ronnie tell me to go to sleep. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Ronnie</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>. I don’t really know how I’m going to wrap my head around you time-traveling. I guess this letter is my way of making sense of it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he woke up the first thing he did was check the mailbox. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick headed back inside and went to his desk to see David’s letter. So it wasn’t a dream, David really had written a letter. He still didn’t know what to think about the time travel. It conjured up for him phrases like the butterfly effect and grandfather paradox. He never really understood it, it seemed too complicated to him. His mind took him back to when David read </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Time Traveler’s Wife</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the thick novel clutched in his hands while they were on vacation. David read a few passages aloud to him and they watched the movie together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had felt a profound sadness watching it. To have a husband who was so vulnerable and to never know which version of him you were seeing. He let out a wet chuckle. At least when Clare first met Henry he gave her dates for his arrival. If this was really happening, Patrick was going in blind, never knowing if David would show in five hours, five days, five months, or five years.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next few days passed in a blur of repeated motions. Wake up. Check the mailbox. Go to the Apothecary. Let people give sympathetic pats as they talked about David. Go back to the cottage, collapse on the bed, and fall asleep. Wake up and repeat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Friday evening Twyla stopped by to drop off a casserole that Jocelyn had made. He gave her a wan smile as she handed him a plate. “Thanks,” he said before taking a bite.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome. Jocelyn said you looked a bit peaky and it seems like she was right.” Twyla’s eyes scanned the living room, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Time Traveler’s Wife </span>
  </em>
  <span>playing on mute, the empty beer bottles on the coffee table, and to Patrick. He winced at what she must think of the scene and him. He knew his eyes were red-rimmed and his face blotchy from crying. He wore David’s ‘Love Me Tender’ sweatshirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want some company?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick pulled the fork out of his mouth and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Sure, if you want to stay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ate slowly and watched Twyla watch the movie. It must either be extremely confused about what was happening or she had seen it before because she never asked for it to be unmuted. When he finished eating he set the plate on the coffee table and scooted further down into the couch. His eyes felt heavy and he shut them for a moment. He knew it was rude with Twyla here, but it was just for a few minutes and then he’d open them again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Patrick opened his eyes again, early morning sunlight shone through. He sat up, a blanket sliding down to his waist. He must have fallen asleep on Twyla. He groaned as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He’d have to go over to the cafe today and apologize for being a bad host.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Awake, he walked to the mailbox to check. Inside was an envelope. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick Rose</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>May 16, 1919</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Patrick,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You probably have more questions than I can give answers for. I know my last letter wasn’t enough, but really I hoped I would be back so that I wouldn’t have to explain it all. I mentioned in the last letter that I’m staying with relatives of Twyla. The one I’ve gotten closest to over the last week is Flora, who luckily doesn’t seem to mind the fact that I don’t seem to know anything. I’ve never seen someone so calm, even after I ruined a shirt when I tried to iron it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She showed me around town and it’s so strange to walk around Main Street knowing what it’ll look like eventually. Some of the buildings are the same, but others I’ve never seen before and the juxtaposition is bizarre.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I also met Douglas Schitt, the current mayor. Which brings me to my next admission. The reason why I have Patrick Rose written on the front of the envelope is that when I was introduced I panicked and said my name was David Brewer. On the off chance, someone read the letters I didn’t want them to think I was having a romantic relationship with my brother, I’m not the Bloomfields. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That leads to my last confession, which is that you’re dead. Well, in a metaphorical sense. The mayor noticed my wedding ring and asked where my wife was. I said she died from the Spanish flu. Thank god I managed to remember something from this time period. As long as they don’t ask about what I did ‘during the war’ I should be fine. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Always Yours,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>May 18, 2019</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear David,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m glad you have someone to help you out. I hate to imagine you trying to adjust without anyone to help you. I’ve updated your family on the situation. They’re kind of confused, but how do I explain to my in-laws that their son has time-traveled? Your letter did ease them a bit so thank you again for writing. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a shame that you’re a widower now, although I’m proud of your quick thinking. You should have no problem with the mourning period since black clothing has always been a part of your wardrobe. As for the war, unless you were a farmer you probably would have been a soldier. I know that’s zero help to you since you can’t read my letters but I’m just going to take a moment and imagine you all dressed up in uniform. I could be the lover you left behind (of course I’m staying behind because I’m farming) and we’re reuniting after being apart for a year. Which is actually closer to how our situation is right now than anything else.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Twyla stopped by to bring a casserole that Jocelyn made and the way everyone is treating me right now you’d think that I was the widower. Which I guess if you never come back then I am. I don’t want to be though, so please, please come home.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>June 6, 1919</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Patrick,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve been here for a month and I still can’t quite believe it. Sometimes I wake up and for a moment I think I might be back with you and then reality sits in and I stare at the walls. Walls that are missing the artwork we picked out together. Windows that don’t have the blackout curtains. Sheets that aren’t soft nor smell like our detergent.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Since I don’t know how long I’ll be here I started looking for jobs and you won’t believe where I work. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s our store.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, obviously it isn’t our store right now. Funnily enough, it’s a general store and not like the one that was there before I took the lease, but an actual proper general store. They have it arranged in a way that actually makes sense and the aesthetic doesn’t want me to run in the other direction. The area above the store that we use for office space is an apartment and the owner was kind enough to let me live there. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s strange being in the store without you. We’ve spent so much time there, the store is our baby. I think I took this job just to feel closer to you. To be able to close my eyes for a moment and just imagine that you’re down at the bank or the cafe and when I open my eyes you’ll be there.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Except when I do you aren’t there.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Always Yours, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>June 8, 2019</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear David,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I like the idea that you’re working at our store. While I work at the store I can imagine you a hundred years ago standing in the same spot that I am or go upstairs and think of you writing your letters at a desk.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Alexis came to visit. I think it might have been in-part just to have visual proof that you aren’t here, although she said it was to check on me, which I don’t doubt. I just feel a little guilty about it. Especially since I have these letters from you and all your family gets are the details I relay to them. Which I do. I hope you don’t mind, I don’t think you would mind. If there’s anything I can do to keep their minds at ease, for them to know that you’re doing okay, I want to do it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve tried to look into time-travel but it’s either way too technical or its science fiction, which I read and then inevitably get anxious about all the possibilities that could happen to you. I don’t even know how your letters are getting to me. Is it some kind of weird time travel magic or is someone delivering them? How would they even do it? I wish you could read my letters.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>August 1, 1919</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Patrick,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been three months since I’ve last touched you and I miss it. To feel your heartbeat against my palm, to see the flush on your face, to hear you gasp and beg as you come undone. Hands and imagination can only go so far, so I might have made a...necessary purchase. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Flora took me to Thornbridge this week and I bought what is colloquially called here a ‘marital aid.’ There are so many things I could say about that and I won’t write those here. The shop owner hinted if it was for my wife and I tried hard not to laugh. Really I should be happy that I was able to get it without being asked too many questions. I don’t think he would have appreciated it if I said it was for myself so I could use it to jerk off and think about my husband who is a hundred years in the future. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If I close my eyes I can pretend it’s you inside of me. Your chest is pressed to my back and you whisper about how good I look like this, all undone and just for you. You’d probably lick the sweat on my neck because you’re weird like that and turn it into kissing my neck, lightly biting at the skin. As you got closer you would pick up the speed of your thrusts, before coming and collapsing on me, panting in my ear as you wrap your arm around me, a hand on my dick to get me off.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When I get back I’m going to </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>devour</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Always Yours,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>August 3, 2019</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear David,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I want that so much. What I wouldn’t give to kiss you, to touch you, to make you feel undone and loved. To have you laid out on our bed as I worship you with my mouth and hands and words. To see the flush on your face and the way you turn your head into your pillow when you get overwhelmed.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I also think of you riding me. I like seeing your face and the expressions you make (I know you aren’t a fan of it but someday I’m going to convince you otherwise). My hands are on your thighs feeling the strong muscle underneath as you move until I lift one of my hands up and brush the side of your ribs and you stop so you can laugh. You’ll make a face and I’ll lean up so I can kiss the look away. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Or I’m still lying on my back as you’re thrusting inside of me, you’re rambling under your breath and your words became incoherent minutes ago. I like that, when you become so undone that you stumble on your words. When I imagine this I admit I like laying my head on your pillow, trying to find any trace scent of you left even though it disappeared weeks ago. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I promise that as soon as we’re together again we can be as debauched as you want. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>September 5, 1919</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Patrick,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Our first anniversary has come and gone and this isn’t how I envisioned us celebrating it. I was thinking more along the lines of renting a cottage at a lake where I could lounge on the dock reading as you swam. After a while and with your insistence I would join you. You’d get sunburnt despite my best efforts and I’d rub aloe on your skin while you grumbled. It would’ve been wonderful, spending time just with you, away from the world and all its problems.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Flora asked me why I had been acting strange this week and I had to explain. She was sympathetic and invited me to dinner. I’m glad for her support, but I wish I was with you. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Always Yours,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>P.S. Please eat the wedding cake that we saved for our anniversary. I’d hate to think of it going to waste.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>September 7, 2019</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear David,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That sounds like it would have been a wonderful way to celebrate. I was hoping I could take you a little farther away, somewhere with a nice hotel and we could visit a museum or an art gallery. I could listen to you talk about art for hours. I wouldn’t necessarily know what you were talking about, but I love seeing how passionate you get about something you love.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stevie came by on our anniversary and unfortunately it was at the moment when I was looking at our wedding photos and crying. Not my best moment, but Stevie has probably seen worse. Actually, you’ve told me stories so I know she has. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She did her best to comfort me which I really appreciated because 1. I know it isn’t her thing and 2. I know she’s been missing you just as much. At least we could cry together.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I know you wanted me to eat the cake and I tried, but it just tasted like nothing. Don’t worry though she ate your share. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope next year we can celebrate together.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>November 7, 1919</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Patrick,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s hard to believe that I’ve been here for six months. Some days it feels like yesterday I was in your arms. I remember you getting out of bed and me pulling you back in to give you a kiss. God, I miss kissing you. Other days it feels like we’ve been apart for years (and yes I know we’re technically years apart right now but you know what I mean). It’s hard to have hope of getting back to you. To know that I can’t even wait it out to see you because I will be dead before then is an unbearable thought and one best not had late at night. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>These letters are a coping mechanism for me. That even if I can’t get back to you, at least my words should. I don’t think I’ve ever explained how I plan for you to get the letters. Since I know the Sands family will be in Schitt’s Creek when you’re there, I plan on having Twyla deliver them. Of course, that’s if no one gets nosey and opens the letters. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Always Yours,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick sat the letter down on the counter and wiped away the hot, angry tears. He thought after this long he wouldn’t cry reading these, but he hadn’t considered they wouldn’t always be of grief and longing. He felt out of control and with a burst of energy he snatched his car keys up. He drove to Twyla’s with a strong grip on the steering wheel and tears blurring his vision. Her cheery yellow of the front door taunted him. He started pounding on it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Patrick. What can I do for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twyla stood there in an olive-green cable knit sweater and black leggings. Her hair was down and damp, a mug gripped in her hands. She looked almost relaxed and Patrick couldn’t see her like this and think about how she hadn’t told him about the letters. He thought they had become closer friends since this all began. She had helped look for David, stopped by the cottage to drop off meals on the days Patrick didn’t have the energy to leave the bed, and whenever he couldn’t sleep they did yoga or hiked together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt betrayed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” He said, voice cracking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twyla frowned. “Why, what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you tell me you were the one delivering the letters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes widened and her mouth drew into an o-shape. “How about you come in and I’ll make you some tea.” She turned around to go inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he said firmly, staying in the doorway. “I want you to tell me why you didn’t say anything. You’ve seen me break down, be absolutely miserable and lost for six months. You could’ve said something and didn’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twyla sat her mug down on a side table. “Patrick, I can explain—.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then please do,” he said, his voice rising as he strode through the door and toward Twyla. “Are there more letters? I want to see them now. They’re from my—” his voice broke— “</span>
  <em>
    <span>husband</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I have every right to see them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twyla shook her head. “I can’t do that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why the hell not?!” Patrick shouted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shifted to stand tall, a strong but sad look in her eyes. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Your husband</span>
  </em>
  <span> requested that we didn’t. I know this has been a pretty awful time for you, but if you want some answers please stop yelling at me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick sagged and felt the fight leave him. He walked over and sat down on the couch, head in his hands. “God, fuck, I’m sorry Twyla. It’s not your fault this happened and really I should be thanking you. Without you, I wouldn’t have any clue where David was or how he is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something warm nudged his hand. He lifted his head up to see Twyla standing next to him, holding out a steaming mug. “Here, have this. I’m going to get some things and if you feel ready, I’ll explain what I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He took the mug with both hands and gripped it tight. The warmth seeped into his hands and he smelled peaches and cinnamon. He took a sip, the punch of whiskey almost catching him off guard. Apparently, he needed more relaxing if the shot of Fireball Twyla put in there was any indication. He leaned back into the cushions. The heady smell of laundry detergent from the afghan thrown over the couch had Patrick closing his eyes and thinking about winter nights when he and David curled up together to watch a movie.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So this is all I have.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opened his eyes to see a yellowed envelope, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do not open until May 11, 2019</span>
  </em>
  <span>, written in David’s looping hand. Taking it he carefully opened it as Twyla moved to sit in the rocking chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>May 9, 1919</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Twyla,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If you’re reading this letter then I have a giant favor to ask of you. Currently, I’m stuck in 1919. I don’t want Patrick to worry about me (although let’s be real he still will). To keep me and him sane I plan to write letters every week that I’m here. I’m staying with your relatives right now and if everything goes according to plan then this should be waiting here for you. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What I need you to do is deliver these letters. I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but send the first one today and after that once a week until they’re gone. It would mean so much to me if you could do this Twyla. Hopefully, I’ll be able to tell you that in person.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Gratefully,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick looked up to see Twyla staring at him thoughtfully. He cleared his throat. “So how many letters are left?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twyla tapped her finger on her knee. “I don’t think David would want me to tell you. You would be more likely to want to read them now. That and you’re going to overthink the number left.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He set the letter down on the coffee table and picked up the mug. He took another sip. “I’m going to overthink it regardless. If I know the number then I can start mentally preparing myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I don’t want to break my promise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick tapped a finger to his knee. Twyla was being reasonable, David had a request and she was honoring it. He thought about how David would feel if he learned that he’d badgered Twyla into telling him things she wasn’t supposed to. Guilt curdled his stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re probably right. Uh, if you want you can just hand me the letters from now on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twyla shook her head. “I think it’s best that there’s a bit of separation between me being your friend and me delivering the letters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, okay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick finished his tea. He heard Twyla’s voice but couldn’t focus enough to know what she was saying. He felt his mind dissociate. All he could focus on was the warmth of the mug, the taste of peaches, and the soothing cadence of her voice. When he finished he thanked Twyla and drove back to the cottage. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point, he had gotten used to the quiet that seemed to follow him everywhere. When he was living alone in the apartment he would still talk aloud or sing to combat the quiet. Patrick didn’t do it now and part of him wondered if he was still waiting for David to fill the silence. He picked up the newest letter from the counter and put it in the box with the others.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>November 9, 2019</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear David,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I did a foolish thing today. In the letter I got today you mentioned that Twyla would deliver your letters. I drove to her house to ask about it and ended up getting angry and yelling at her. I’m lucky she was nice enough to let me stay in the house. She could have easily kicked me out and not told me anything.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Instead, she showed me the letter that you left for her. Part of me understands why you have them spread out once a week instead of all at once, but the other part of me wants to read them now. To pour over the words and see if I can find out something new, something to bring you back. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Every day feels easier and harder without you. I feel guilty when I think it’s easier. That it shouldn’t ever be this way. Then I remember that at some point I have to make it easier because you might not return and I’ll have to move on. But I don’t want to move on. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p><em><span>Moving on means I’ve given up on you and I don’t want to do that yet.</span></em> <em><span>I feel stuck in a strange middle ground and I don’t know where to go. I wish you could guide me to the right decision.</span></em></p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>December 19, 1919</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Patrick,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The weather is absolutely awful right now. You’d love it because it means you can start doing all your fun winter activities. It’s a shame you won’t be able to see my winter themed ‘my husband is on the team’ spectator look. I’m not even able to lounge in the cottage and watch The Holiday.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I have plans to spend the holidays with Flora and her family. It’s been nice to have their support even if it means having to be around her sticky-handed toddler. Although Henry and I have recently reached an understanding after we discussed respecting personal boundaries. I also may be sneaking him cookies.   </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When you see my family can you tell them that I love them and miss them? It’s amazing that we used to not see each other for months on end without even realizing it and now I’m missing them after only seven months. This next request may be a bit hard, but can you check on Stevie every now and then? You probably are, but knowing her she’s trying not to make it a big deal.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Always Yours,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>December 21, 2019</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear David,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss sharing these moments with you. It’s a feeling I get often, but the holidays seem to put it in overdrive with the traditions and nostalgia. Our families will be coming to the cottage to celebrate Christmas. Part of me doesn’t want them to be here so I can just wallow by myself, but I have to remember that they’ve lost someone too.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s something I don’t think I’ve thought about much this year, but it’s true. I’ve been so focused on my own loss that I really haven’t considered what they’ve lost. Celebrating with them will be nice and maybe for a little while I can help lessen the pain. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I feel like I should confess something. Since autumn I’ve started to wear some of your sweaters. I know I did it before, but it happens with more frequency. When I wear them I can pretend it’s you. I know that sounds ridiculous. I can’t wait for the day when I get to see you in your sweaters again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>January 2, 1920</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Patrick,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a new year and I’m still not with you. I celebrated New Year's Eve with the Sands. It was nothing like the parties I went to in New York, but there is something to be said about a small party with people whose presence you actually enjoy. It reminded me a little of last year’s party, except I didn’t sneak outside with anyone to share a New Year’s kiss with.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Happy New Year, Patrick, I hope to be with you soon.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Always Yours,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick heard the jingle of the bell as he walked through the entrance. The museum was tinier than he expected and as he glanced around the front room he didn’t see anyone. He glanced to his left and saw a guest book. He picked up the pen and dutifully signed his name. It was strange to see his name without David’s next to it.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He started walking around the exhibits, stopping occasionally to read the little placards next to the displays. Patrick wasn’t sure if he could find what he was looking for here or if they could even help him, but he’d rather try and come up empty then never try at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you Patrick?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick looked up from the placard to see someone walking toward him. “Yes?” he hesitantly replied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stopped in front of him, a hand outstretched. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Max.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick gave a small smile and shook their hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Max.” He looked at them a bit closer. They wore a pair of grey slacks and a mustard yellow turtleneck sweater, their hair was up in a bun revealing an undercut and they wore three hoops in each ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me show you what I found,” Max said as they guided Patrick to a table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A box sat on the table along with a folder. He sat down trying not to stare too hard at the folder wondering what it held.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to admit that this is probably the strangest request I’ve had.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick laughed. “Well, I thought I’d be honest. Truthfully I expected you to tell me that you wouldn’t help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Max laughed. “A time-traveling spouse? How could I not want to know more?” They opened the folder and Patrick tried to read the notes upside down. “I did find some things about a David Brewer. Most of it was mentions in the social section of the newspaper.” They pushed a copy printout of a newspaper. The print was tiny and faint. Patrick squinted to read it but still struggled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here.” They pushed another sheet of paper in front of him. This one was a typed version which he could easily read.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mr. David Brewer took dinner on Friday with Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Schitt at their home.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mr. David Brewer moved to the apartment above the General Store this week. He is currently employed at this location.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mr. David Brewer and Mrs. Edmund Sands traveled to Thornbridge yesterday.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mr. David Brewer will spend Christmas with the family of Edmund Sands.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His letters provided his point of view, but looking at these it showed that no matter the time David always managed to ingratiate himself with people in town. Despite his professed reluctance to do so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s also one more thing,” Max said. They sat a black and white photo down in front of him. It was in a protective sleeve which was probably a good thing because Patrick’s first instinct was to touch it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gasped. It was a photo of David at what had to be the general store. He stood behind the counter talking to a woman, maybe Flora based on David’s smirk. Behind him were shelves with goods neatly lined up, a register sat to the left of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was wearing a dark-colored suit, probably black, with a tie. Round metal glasses were perched on his nose and his hair wasn’t at its usual coif. Instead, it was styled in waves, closer to the curls Patrick saw when they were in private. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When you gave me the address of the Apothecary I was able to look the address up in the city directory. Once I had the name of the business I was able to find this,” they gestured to the photo, “in one of the boxes. Do you want a cop—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Patrick interrupted. “Yes, I would really love that.” He couldn’t stop staring at the photo. It felt like a lifeline to David. The letters grounded Patrick, but having this visual proof—to know that at one point David was there and looked happy and healthy—had him letting go of tension he thought he had gotten rid of.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Max smiled as they handed a copy over. “I had a feeling you might want one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He clutched it in his hands, the beginning of tears starting to form. “Thanks,” he said voice thick. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Max lightly placed their hand on Patrick’s forearm. “I can’t say I’ve been in a similar position, but what I can do is keep looking to see if I find anything else."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick looked down at the photo of David and back up at them. "That would mean so much."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>January 4, 2020</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear David,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Today I spent the day at the Elm County Historical Museum. Who knew we had that? Before your time-travel, I hadn’t really thought about it, but it’s ended up being a trove of information. I emailed the director, Max, and they managed to find some things with you in it. It was nice to have confirmation from an outside source, including a photo. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I know I joked previously about you being a man in uniform, but I have to admit I really love your suit. Maybe when you get back you can show it to me?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Max also gave me some advice on how to properly store your letters. Obviously, they won’t be in a climate-controlled area, but they’ve made it a hundred years and I don’t want to be the reason they get ruined. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>April 30, 1920</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Patrick,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I was hoping I wouldn’t have to write this letter. It’s almost been a year since I got stuck here and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever get back. I know I keep talking about that, but with every day that passes, it seems truer. I’m proud of what I’ve done here. It isn’t much, but after what is basically the second time I’ve had to restart my life it’s gone better than I could hope. Of course, having you with me would make it better. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t decide if it would be a good thing for you to be stuck here with me. Yes, it would be difficult and we would be missing our family and friends, but we would be together again. I don’t want to miss any more time with you. There has been something I’ve been thinking about as this first year draws to a close.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I want you to be happy. I have no idea if you are. I’d assume that you were just as devastated in the beginning as I am, but I also want you to know that there’s nothing wrong with being happy. There is no point in both of us being absolutely miserable, although these letters probably haven’t done a good job of conveying it. I’m as happy as I can be here and I want you to have that too. I could rest easier if I knew that you were happy, and if this goes on for years, whenever you’re happy please think fondly of your resilient, beautiful, time-traveling husband.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Always Yours,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>May 2, 2020</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear David,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’d hoped you would be back by now too. Of course, the rational part of my brain tried to tell me not to get my hopes up. It’s been a complete failure. Stevie and Alexis are here with me right now and I know it’s because they’re worried about what I’ll do. To be fair they have a good reason. I know I’ve let people down or disappointed them this year and I want to be better.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I worry about how I’ll be if I have to go another year without you. It makes me sound desperate almost and I know you feel probably just as bad as I do, shielding me from your darker thoughts. There are better days when I am happy, where I smile and laugh. Of course I’ll think of you David. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of you and even if I never get to see you in person again I know I’ll think of you every day of the rest of my life.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick didn’t want to open his eyes. He knew if he got up he would have to acknowledge the date: May 8, 2020.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been a full year since David left. Was taken. Gone from his life. However he worded it, it was the same. He wanted to stay in bed and pretend that the world wasn’t coming all down around him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alexis and Stevie had other plans and dragged him out of bed when he wasn’t up in time to open the store. Forcefully encouraging him to get ready, Patrick opened the store by 9:30. He headed in the back to put his satchel away, ignoring the conversation the two of them were having. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew routine was important, but he thought that today of all days they would let him wallow, and maybe they would have if he hadn’t spent a majority of the past year doing just that. Alexis and Stevie conceded enough by letting him stay in the back and for that he was thankful. The only thing that kept him going was the idea that when he got off work Twyla would have delivered another letter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick shifted the car into park. He’d managed to convince Alexis and Stevie not to spend the night at the cottage. While he appreciated the support, he just wanted to be alone for the rest of the evening. He opened the mailbox to find it empty. He furrowed his brow, maybe Twyla set the letter on the doorstep? It didn’t necessarily make sense, but he didn’t want to think about what it meant if there wasn’t a letter. He walked up to the door to see no envelope. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There wasn’t one on the back porch, nor was there one in the house. He sent Twyla a quick text.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Hey, did you drop off David’s letter yet?</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t know how to tell you this, but Patrick, there aren’t any more letters for me to give you</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick dropped his phone on the counter. He felt like he was going to throw up, faint, or both. Instead, he slowly slid down until his back was pressed up against the fridge, its coolness giving him a point to focus.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His head swam. What did this mean? What did it mean for David? Was he even alive? He felt queasy, and his mouth dry. His body started to heave and he scrambled up off the floor and threw up in the kitchen trash can. His stomach tensed as more vomit came up. He blinked back tears as his throat burned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally finished, he collapsed to the floor again. He was clammy, hands slightly shaking. Patrick didn’t know what he was going to do. He’d spent the whole year trying to get David back, his letters the only thing giving him the energy to continue, and if they were gone what did he have left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just myself,” he whispered into the empty room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick got up on shaky legs, using the counter to help support him. He grabbed a tumbler and a bottle of whiskey and headed to the back porch. He didn’t want to think. He sat down on the porch swing with a heavy sigh, stopping the rocking motion with his foot long enough to pour his drink. He raised the glass to his lips and focused on the sting as it went down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laid down on the swing and gave it a light push. He stared at the sky. The sun was still out, it was too early in the evening for the sun to set. He wished that he could fast forward through this, the uncertainty and sorrow, and finally, just have answers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t sure how much he drank. He knew it was more than he probably should have. He couldn’t concentrate and the thought of getting up seemed too much for him. Instead, he laid there and willed the swing to swallow him whole. The rocking motion of the swing helped Patrick slow his breathing, and eventually fall asleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A cold hand on Patrick’s face woke him up. His eyes opened and the first thing he saw was David. He blinked, thinking that the face would change from David’s to Twyla or Stevie’s. It wouldn’t be the first time they had to usher him back into the cottage after passing out on the porch. He would have blamed it on the whiskey and loneliness if it wasn’t for what David wore. It wasn’t like anything he had seen before, and part of him wondered if maybe it was a dream after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wore a light grey suit, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a matching vest underneath. The high-cut only revealed a dark blue tie with a silver paisley design and white collar. Patrick’s mind flashed to the photo of David at the general store. He stood above Patrick, a wide grin on his face and tears in his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Patrick whispered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David knelt down so they were face to face and took his other hand to place it over Patrick’s heart. “Hi, honey,” he replied softly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick took his hand and gripped the forearm that was cupping his face. “Are you really here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David gave a watery laugh. “I’m really here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick surged forward, almost pitching himself off the porch swing, to kiss David. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, I’ve missed this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There was no flair to the kiss, just lips pressed hard against lips, slightly off-center with Patrick trying his best to get as much contact with David as physically possible. It wasn’t until Patrick’s back was pressed against the floor that he pulled off. His vision was blurred from the tears he couldn’t stop shedding. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just stared at David’s face. He looked like he was bursting with joy, the early morning sun shining down on them, warming his skin. The heavy weight of David on top of him reassured him that David was here, that he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and if Patrick had his way David would be staying. He lifted his body up and tucked his head into the crook of David’s neck. A woodsy scent filled his nose and he felt his body relax, the stress of the past year starting to slip away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stroked David’s back, thumb dragging across the wool jacket. He focused on David’s heartbeat, his thumb moved to tap to the beat. He felt time slip away, the only important things being him and David, </span>
  <em>
    <span>together</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come to bed,” he whispered, a thumb tracing David’s jaw. His jaw was uncharacteristically smooth, lacking its customary stubble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With pleasure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David took Patrick’s hand and helped him up. They clambered up the stairs and to their bed. Patrick sat down and pulled David until he was in the space between his legs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ran his hands appreciatively down David’s suit. “As much as I love this, I want it gone.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David pulled his suit jacket off and sat it on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Mmm, I agree. Although, we will circle back about how much you like my outfit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With his experience taking off David’s modern clothes he thought the suit wouldn’t be a problem. He couldn’t be more wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick huffed. “How many pieces are there?” He’d already take off the vest and tie, (to reveal some lovely black leather suspenders) and the pants. In his eagerness to get the clothes off he had started to take David’s pants off before stopping to take off the black Oxfords. He now stared at David’s socks which were blue with small grey diamonds and held up by sock garters that matched his suspenders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I wanted to be fashionable?” David responded as he undid his cuff links. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick unclipped the sock garters and took those and the socks off. “I’m not complaining, I just didn’t think there would be this much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He got up from the floor and started unbuttoning David’s dress shirt. He raised an eyebrow at the blue, pink, and peach thin vertical stripes on the white shirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think of it as unwrapping a gift.” David took advantage of Patrick’s close proximity and leaned in to kiss him as Patrick pushed his shirt off his shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick pulled back from the kiss and set the shirt on the chest with the rest of the clothes. He turned back around and looked David up and down. When it came to David’s clothing he had only really thought about what he could see and not what was underneath. Now, he was staring at a white one-piece thing, it was sleeveless and stopped right above the knee. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt a smile creep onto his face. “What’s this?” Patrick said as he dragged a finger across David’s chest. The fabric felt soft and slippery, probably silk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David sighed. “It’s a union suit. I’m just glad it’s summer because there is nothing sexy about the one I wore in the winter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know David, I think you could make anything sexy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David twisted his lips, hiding a smile. “You flatterer. Now, I seem to be more undressed than you, so I think you should fix that situation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a huff, Patrick let David take the union suit off while he focused on getting out of his own clothes. In short order, they were both naked and David pushed Patrick down on the bed and climbed on top of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick missed this. Warm skin on warm skin, the slight drag as they rocked against each other, David’s lips pressing insistently on his skin before capturing his lips. Patrick moved his hands to drag along David’s back and thrust insistently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was no finesse in it, instead just rubbing and thrusting as they reconnected for the first time in a year. There’d be time later to slowly take each other apart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nuzzled his face down into the crook of David’s neck, mouthing along the area, David whispering quiet nonsense in his ear, occasionally being broken by a hitch in his voice as he cried. The only thing he could understand was the occasional “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you”</span>
  </em>
  <span> tumbling out of David’s mouth. It was over before it really started and Patrick pressed their foreheads together. He felt tears drying on his face and saw the wet shine in David’s eyes. He held in place for a minute before pulling away and getting up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He walked to the bathroom and perfunctorily cleaned himself before wetting a washcloth. He stepped into the doorway to see David in bed. His heart clenched at the sight. David had fallen asleep, his body curled into the empty space Patrick left. He cleaned up David as best as he could and placed the washcloth onto the side table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lifted the bedsheet and crawled under, lifting one of David’s arms so he could cuddle into him. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was a wayward curl stuck to David’s forehead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick didn’t sleep. He did for a few hours but upon waking he took to something else, staring at David. The novelty hadn’t worn off. Of course, he loved staring at David long before this whole time travel nonsense started, but now it felt like it had a purpose. He tracked all the new changes of David’s body: the little wrinkles around his eyes, pale skin not as tan without the regular spray tan, and the few gray hairs that, if David asked, were really not that noticeable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See something you like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick broke from his thoughts to see David awake, a grin on his face. He traced a finger along the side of David’s face. “Always,” he whispered. He continued to move his finger down David’s neck before opening his hand and gently running his fingers through his chest hair. “I know I cleaned you up last night, but you probably would like to take an actual shower.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David sighed and stretched out his body. “Mmm, I’ve missed good water pressure and I’d really like to get the Brilliantine out of my hair.” He glanced back at his pillow. “I think that pillowcase is a lost cause.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick patted David’s chest, right over his heart. “You go in and I’ll take care of the sheets.” David pulled him into a breathless kiss and left Patrick with one thought,</span>
  <em>
    <span> I get these moments again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. David pulled away and smiled as he headed into the bathroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sat up and stretched before stripping the sheets and putting new ones on. He picked up the old ones and walked down the stairs. He threw the sheets in the washer and went to the kitchen to start the coffeemaker and the electric kettle. Patrick opened the cupboard and grabbed two mugs. He smiled. It was such a simple task, but he’d missed it all the same. He carefully walked back up the stairs and back to the bedroom. He sat on the bed and sipped at this tea while he checked on his phone. He knew that he should tell everyone David was back, but he was selfish and wanted at least another hour with him to himself. He did send Stevie a text and say he’d be late to open the Apothecary.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bathroom door opened and David walked through. His skin was flushed and Patrick felt the dampness on his skin when he walked up to kiss him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have coffee for you,” Patrick said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My hero,” David said as he went to grab it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m gonna take a quick shower.” Patrick gave David a kiss on the cheek and made his way to the bathroom. Stepping into the shower it still smelled like David’s soap. He took as fast a shower that was humanly possible. He cinched a towel around his waist and opened the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick saw David in his underwear, perched at the end of the bed, one of his letters in his hand. The clamshell box Patrick stored the letters in was next to David open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David looked up at him and smiled. “I see you got my letters and you even put them in a fancy box.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick shrugged his shoulders and walked to the dresser and grabbed a pair of underwear. He dropped his towel and put them on. “I made friends with an archivist.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David raised an eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought they could help me find you,” Patrick clarified. He went to the dresser and grabbed a shoebox. “And in the interest of being honest, I might have replied to all of yours.” He sat the box down on David’s lap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David opened the box to reveal a stack of letters. His fingers lightly grazed the top letter, “Oh.” He looked up at Patrick with a mix of shock and tenderness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick placed a kiss on the top of his head. “Take your time and read them when you want. I should really make some calls and explain to our friends and family that you’re back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh god, I forgot,” David said looking up from the letter he was reading. His face looked concerned and his hands twitched as if unsure what to do next.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to talk to them if you don’t have the energy quite yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to at least say hi,” David replied softly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick gently rubbed David’s arm. “Okay, then that’s what we’ll do.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next few days were a whirlwind. With each update Patrick made, tears and screams were the immediate response. Moira and Johnny made plans to fly out and they’d already had a video call which started with Moira bursting into tears and crying out that her “prodigal son had returned from his time-travel venture.” When Alexis came by she wouldn’t stop touching David, as if she was worried he would leave. Stevie gave David a big hug and then punched him in the arm and had him promise never to do that again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick put up a notice that the Apothecary would be closed for a few days due to David’s return and continually had townspeople sending them well wishes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It still seemed strange to have David around. It had only been a month but sometimes Patrick would walk into the living room or kitchen and see David and he’d stop and stare at him. They had talked about what they had each done in the year, filling in the gaps that their letters left. What they really hadn’t discussed was </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> it happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you ever think about why it happened to you?” Patrick asked one night. They were on the sofa, Patrick curled into David, a blanket thrown over them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I try not to think about it,” David started. “I tried to figure it out when I first got there, but I was doing my best to not accidentally say anything that would ruin the future and just get back to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick turned to give David’s arm a kiss. “I’ve thought about it. I think it might be magic? You mentioned a deer in your first letter, so I started searching.” He leaned over to the coffee table and grabbed a book. “I found this book that talked about deer in mythology. The best guess I have is that in Celtic lore they sometimes are spirits or deities. Usually, it’s to teach the person a lesson, but you made it seem like you kind of accidentally stumbled upon the deer”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm, well what if they were trying to teach you a lesson? Or maybe both of us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick looked at David critically. When he always thought about the situation he always thought of it in relation to David and his actions, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “So what do you think it could be?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David shrugged his shoulders. “That our love is stronger than time itself? That we’re independent individuals and our relationship is just one facet of our lives? That they’re pissed we put deer repellent around the garden? Whatever it is hopefully they decide that I should stay in this timeline. I don’t want a </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Time Traveler’s Wife</span>
  </em>
  <span> situation on our hands.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Except in that they got to see each other,” Patrick started as he set the book back down and cuddled into David’s side. “We didn’t get to see each other for a year.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And Henry tragically died. My point still stands.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick kissed David’s cheek. “So you don’t want to be my time-traveling husband?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David shook his head. “Nope. I would much rather prefer to be your ‘stays in one timeline’ husband.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I like that too,” Patrick replied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two weeks later Patrick found a strange letter in the mailbox. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear David and Patrick,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>We give our sincere apologies for transporting David in time. Rowan got scared and did it by accident. Patrick, I’m sure you didn’t notice as it was only a year and from what we understand of humans that isn’t too long. This shouldn’t happen again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if you want to chat i'm <a href="http://hullomoon.tumblr.com/">hullomoon</a> on tumblr!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>